


Heart (like a harbour) there is only one ship for me

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Animal Traits, Due to the nature of this story it could be considered dub-con but not really, I am probably shaming my ancestors with this one, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mating Season, Oral Sex, Rimming, Rough Sex, Scenting, Soul Bond, Where in which Bard does a good job of pining without realizing he is pining, and basically everything gets a whole hell of a lot more interesting from there, fated love, oh well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:52:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3260663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He blew on his tea habitually, finding his gaze straying to the window – the only one in the room that faced the great forest – more than once. He hadn't seen the Elven-King in months, not since the deep snows and bitter cold had rendered travel not just unwise but almost impossible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's Hobbit nor Peter Jackson's Hobbit series. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: Set post BOFA and revolves around the idea that come spring, amongst elves, if one's 'hearts mate' is close, they will be called to their side. It is not a common thing amongst elves due to circumstances and low birth rates, but it does happen. Only no one has ever seen it have any effect on a son of man before. But then again, Thranduil never really does anything the easy way, does he? *This story is told in the point of view of Bard and is Barduil (Thranduil/Bard) in terms of a pairing. This is my first time writing Bard as a main character, as well as this pairing, so I hugely appreciate any and all feedback/constructive criticism you have to offer.
> 
> Warnings: Contains movie spoilers, elements of soulmate-style universe, mating season (heat, animal mannerisms, scenting, rough sex, masturbation), set in an everyone lives au, naturally. Due to the nature of the story it could be considered dub-con.

"Da?" Tilda asked, quick on the mark as he joined them in the main room for breakfast. He ran his hand through his hair, suppressing a yawn. Gifting all three of them with a smile as he adjusted his long coat over his shoulders, still not used to the feeling of fine material against his skin.

His youngest seemed quite excited indeed, upper lip ringed with goat's milk, as she set down her mug and fidgeted eagerly. "Is King Thrand-Thra-and-a-" trailing off as the unfamiliar name got the better of her.

"Thranduil," Sigrid supplied helpfully, summoning a napkin from the depths of her skirt and wiping her sister's mouth with a quick, practiced flick that ensured she'd come and gone before Tilda could fend her off - dark curls bouncing as Bain made a face at her from across the table.

"Yes,  _him_ ," Tilda echoed, cleanly avoiding having to bother trying to say it again as he poured himself a generous measure of Oolong-root tea and sipped it gratefully, peering out the window and into the weak morning light as the city came awake around them. "Is he coming today, da?"

"Tomorrow, love," he replied, hiding a smile as he pressed a kiss into her hair, ignoring the soft  _hem-hem_ of disapproval from Fulthain when he did not wait for the fussy old man to pull back his chair. His man-servant – newly appointed and insisted upon by more people than he could count – was apparently under the impression that the King of Dale could do nothing without his aid. "Perhaps tonight, we shall have to see."

He blew on his tea habitually, finding his gaze straying to the window – the only one in the room that faced the great forest – more than once. He hadn't seen the Elven-King in months, not since the deep snows and bitter cold had rendered travel not just unwise but almost impossible.

Admitting to himself that he missed the temperamental elf was one thing. But coming to grips with the thrill of excitement that had been coursing through him ever since the snows had cleared and the first shoots of an early spring began to break ground was no small thing to deny.

They had been in each other's company often since the battle. Thranduil had pledged a measure of support – alongside Thorin and the dwarves of Erebor - in outfitting his people for the winter months and aiding in the rebuilding of the city. Trading confidences long into the evening as they poured over ancient scrolls, blue-prints from the original builders.

The elf had also been a great help in aiding him make the transition – however stubborn and unwilling he was – from bargeman to King. He valued the elf-king's council greatly and gained, he thought, a measure of respect in the other's eyes as he took to the role with more furor than he would've thought possible only a mere few months ago.

It had come to a point that messengers rode regularly between them. More so than had ever been between their two people. Their visits too had grown regular. With the elven-king eventually despairing of his fine tents and gilded things after he offered him a permanent residence in a private corner of his personal halls. It was a small thing, nothing but a boon offered by the King of a crumbling town – nowhere near as opulent as he knew the elf was accustomed - but the offer had apparently pleased the elf greatly, for he'd used them liberally ever since.

Even Thorin had seen fit to comment on their burgeoning friendship when he'd been to Erebor to dine one evening in late fall. Drinking liberally in an attempt to at least keep pace with the boisterous company, before the King Under the Mountain beckoned him aside, wondering aloud if there was something he'd done to lose the King of Dale's favor as he eyed the empty spot to his right with something close to longing.

But it was for that reason that he'd paid the comment little mind. Knowing that most of the dwarf-king's irritation was centered on the absence of his hobbit, who had returned to the Shire to greet the spring and tie up loose ends at his estate before returning to Erebor for the remainder of the year.

He was quite sure no one was looking forward to that happy day more than those who had suffered the brunt of Thorin's foul humor more than once during the intervening months, himself included.

Balin had merely twitched his beard in sympathy, making a point to refill his tankard when the two of them finally returned to the high table. "Pay him no mind, my lord," the white beard remarked, "Thorin is still a bit sore about Kili's –  _ahem_. And with Bilbo on top of it, well, you understand."

He'd simply smiled, good humor undampened as Bofur broke out into song somewhere on the other side of the hall. Taking a hearty pull of ale before he clapped the older dwarf on the shoulder companionably. Well aware that his were not the only eyes that slid curiously across the span of the table. Lingering on Kili and Tauriel as they bent heads, completely in their own world as they soaked in each other's presence with unmistakable joy. The growing love between them clear.

"You just want to see him because last time he brought you that stupid dress you haven't stopped talking about since-" Bain started, rolling his eyes when Tilda stuck out her tongue, clutching her spoon like she was seriously considering catapulting a dollop of jam as Fulthain fidgeted fastidiously on the sidelines.

"Last time I checked he brings  _all_ of you presents, quite regularly in fact," he pointed out mildly, shaking himself from his thoughts to nip the potential argument at the root with the ease of long practise. "Speaking of which-"

"I did him a bit of cross-stitch and wrote him a letter in Sindarin," Sigrid replied proudly, "I've been practising. I was going to head up to the mountain after tea and get Tauriel to look it over, make sure I didn't accidentally call him a-"

"I drew him a picture!" Tilda broke in, "I didn't have the right colors for the dress, but Master Ori told me he'd try and find some lavender to dye the paint the right color for next time."

"And you, Bain?" he asked, making short work of the stack of fried capers and soft boiled eggs Fulthain set in front of him. Eying the pile of scrolls on the side table, waiting for his perusal. Likely requests from the stone masons again – permission to purchase new stone and mortar.

"I wrote him a letter," his son returned, fiddling with a bit of leftover green on his plate. "Master Fasthelm says it is the finest bow he's ever seen. I am getting better with it, I think."

He smiled fondly, wiping his mouth with a napkin as he leaned back in his chair with an indulgent stretch, feeling the joints pop and shift as he tried to ease the strange skiff of tension that seemed to have taken up residence during the night. Perhaps he'd been working a bit too hard at the walls of late.

He cocked his head, joining his fingers and lifting them above his head as his son chattered excitedly about his lessons. Well aware that even then, the explanation didn't quite fit. He leaned back in his chair, blinking slowly.  _Something was different, off, he just didn't know what._

A soft  _hem-hem_  rousted him from his thoughts. He suffered through the half-bow before nodding for Fulthain to come forward – ever insistent on protocol – feeling more like the stuffy old man was slowly training  _him_ rather than the other way around as Fulthain smiled apologetically and turned to the children.

"I am afraid it is past time for young Master Bain to join Fasthelm in the training yard. The ladies as well, to their music lessons. We do not want to keep Master Gleothain and Mistress Gleobeam waiting."

He shoved the rest of his breakfast into his mouth before leaping to his feet as the three of them banged out the door in a flurry of scraping chairs and dancing cutlery. Making a grab for the scrolls as he breezed out the door in their wake.

No matter how many butlers, chamber maids, stone-masons, builders and gods knows who else had travelled fast to Dale to ply their trades and aid in the rebuilding of the city of his forefathers, there was never a shortage of things to do.

Especially with Thranduil likely on his way.

_There was much to be done and not much time to do it in!_

* * *

A day passed, then another with no sign of an approaching party. At first he thought nothing of it, thinking perhaps Thranduil had been held up by affairs of state or some other matter that needed his immediate attention. But when the third day closed without even a messenger he couldn't deny that even  _his_  usual goodwill was beginning to feel severely trodden upon.

Still, irritation or not, he couldn't deny he wasn't looking forward to the Elf-King's visit. In fact, he used the lull to prepare. He'd come to look forward to each visit more and more in the long months since the death of Smaug and the great battle. But this time he was stuck by the unrelenting need for everything to be perfect - as perfect as they could be in a crumbling city.

He gave orders for Thranduil's rooms to be aired out twice daily, seeded with sweet smelling rushes and bowls of fragrant oils. Lingering long in his rooms to pour over their stores, making sure they had enough wine. Placing orders with the lower farms for a fresh selection of fruits and vegetables to be brought up as soon as able, determined that his guest would have the best they could offer and more.

And if his housekeepers thought his single-minded fussing odd, thankfully they didn't bring it up where he could hear. Not that he would have noticed. For as the days passed, his obsession grew to a point where it would have probably taken another  _dragon_  falling out of the sky to wrench him from his tasks.

* * *

It was only his pride that kept him from sending a messenger. Refusing to let himself cave and give the prickly bastard the satisfaction of knowing he'd come looking as the days lengthened into a week and spring wrapped itself firmly around the valley floor. Suffusing the air with the smell of freshness and growing things as he stewed in his bitterness. Struggling to shoulder the weight as the same tension that had plagued him since the first day, grew more crushing by the hour.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept through the night.

Nor could he recall the feeling of contentment or joy.

He felt dismantled.  _Incomplete._  As unfinished as the city taking shape around him.

He spent his nights staring at the ceiling. Courting the restless tension that crawled like insects underneath his skin.

He spent his days little better. Taking to riding long and hard into the evenings.

Pushing his charger at a punishing pace as he traced the borders of Mirkwood with hoof and sole. Trying to put a name to the strange feelings coursing within. But always his gaze would return to the trees. Staring from distant cliffs and far away cairns, cursing under his breath as the forest refused to give up its long kept secrets.

_There was something wrong._

_Different._

_He felt almost as if-_

By the weeks end he was as close to livid as he could get without ruining his kingly dignity and taking his foul temper out on those that did not deserve it. Even his children could bring him no respite. Instead, he instructed Fulthain to keep them well occupied and took to his offices to seethe in private. Sulky and brooding as to not put a damper on his people's excitement for the warmth and richness that spring hadn't given the people of the lake for more than an age.

The pleasure of it was a tangible thing. Free-floating and easy in the ripening air as the people's anticipation spread like ripples on an inlet pond. But again, it flowed over him like water meeting hot iron, dissolving into mist the moment it met with the harried tangle of his thoughts. Leaving him empty and lesser for it as he wrestled with the impossible nature of the problem he was facing. To know himself when the skin beneath the face twisted and corrupted itself with its own rot - yearning for something he could no sooner name than bring himself to face.

* * *

On the tenth day a messenger from Mirkwood arrived alone on horseback. He was in his study, discussing the upcoming planting season with the family heads from the outlying farms when Fulthain brought the unfamiliar elf in.

He raised a brow as his council disbanded, taking in the unfamiliar elf from his chestnut-red hair and elaborately looping braids, to the pristine leather of his boots. Uncertain if he was supposed to be irritated or impressed that the elf could have ridden through the spring muck without getting even so much as a single stain on him.

He decided to settle for irritated when he realized he was receiving the same treatment.

"Where is Veryamorcon?" he asked, as if by way of greeting, appearing to startle the elf out of his thoughts as he halted his scrutiny and met his gaze, inclining his head respectfully.

"Mae govannen, my lord. I am Abladon," the elf returned, giving no sign he was either aware or affected by the lack of greeting as the male waved off his silent offer of food and drink.

"I come with greetings and apologies from my King. For my Lord Thranduil regrets that he cannot attend to the matters of Dale at this time."

He took a measured sip of from his goblet, giving himself a moment to think. For while he'd expected as much, he couldn't deny the stab of disappointment that settled low in his belly. Nor the emergence of that same, queer sort of rage that had been smouldering within - like banked coals drowning its own ashes – for the better part of the week.

He looked up and caught the messenger staring again. He blinked, leaning back in his chair as the elf cocked his head, following the movement as he took another deliberate swallow from his glass. Slightly unnerved as the unnatural creature appeared to stare right through him and into the flesh that lay beyond.  _It was almost as if the elf was looking for something. A signal? A sign? Something that might tell him-_

Suspicion rankled through him like something foul. It was something he wouldn't have entertained any other day than this. Something slippery and whispering that made him breathe deep, imagining he could smell the Elf-King on the messenger's clothes.

This time he didn't even try to deny it when jealousy sparked. Allowing his hand to clench around the delicate stem of his glass – one gift of many from the King in question – until the hand-forged crystal whinged in warning.

_So the mighty lord had time to dictate a message more than a week late, but not come himself? He was no longer some lowly bargeman. Short-tempered or not, this was an outright offence! A personal slight!_

"When can we expect him?"

"My King did not inform me as to when. Only that he could not attend here for the foreseeable future and requested me to return directly," Abladon replied blithely, smoothing a thatching of shining hair behind a curved ear with a fastidious blur of movement.

"I see," he retorted, sensing he was getting far from the truth of it as he rose. Intrigued by the sudden ghost of tension that passed across the elf's face before it was masked once more. It felt like he was playing with dragon fire. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to stop. Deliberately passing closer to vulnerable back of him than he had any reason to as he crossed to the decanter warming in the rays of the forest-facing window.

"And what business keeps him? We had the understanding he was expected more a week past," he countered, pouring himself a generous cup as the elf's steady gaze flickered fractionally. "He confirmed as much when he sent Veryamorcon with news from the other realms after the first melt."

"My lord did not give me leave to say," Abladon returned, careful this time and perhaps even a measure more respectful as he returned to his seat, glass swirling with the rich dry red that Thranduil himself favored.

A sudden thought pricked, rising meekly from underneath the sea of anger and resentment he'd been swimming in. Startling him with a thought he hadn't considered until the need to know was almost overwhelming.

"Is he well?"

He knew he wasn't imagining it this time when the messenger's lips twitched. Hiding a smile or perhaps even a smirk as he laced his fingers in front of him, the picture of lazy patience as the watch called out the hour on the inner wall. "My King is in good health, my lord."

His brow furrowed once more, not at all appeased as a measure of consequential awareness made itself known. Petty politics aside, one of the first lessons Thranduil had taught him as King was that relations between realms followed a pattern, an unspoken code of behavior and timing that neither side was oft to break lightly.

It was a slight he found hard to stomach. Especially from the Elven-King.

While Thranduil was certainly not the most approachable of people, he was remarkably perceptive and in fact cared about the wants and desires of those around him, especially his people. And of late – or at least until now – he had counted himself and his family among that number. Which is what made this entire affair all the more suspect in his mind.

For there was a reason he brought up Veryamorcon. He knew for a fact that Thranduil had noticed the forest-ranger's fondness for Dale. Or more specifically for Sigrid's sweet berry rolls and his tendency to find his way to Erebor to seek out Prince Fili. Letting himself be pestered into dicing and dagger throwing long into the evening whenever his King had no need of him.

What was more, was that while Thranduil's friendship had been extended freely, they had both taken pains to cultivate the understanding between them during the battle into something  _more_  than just a simple alliance between neighboring Kings. They had spent long in each other's company, even after all talk of trade and politics had been exhausted. Finding the thinnest of excuses to call on one another for counsel and idle banter.

 _For the Valar's sake! The damned creature spoiled his children to a degree even he was growing uncomfortable with!_  Something was amiss here. Something beyond his ability to sense, but close enough that the inability to do so simmered within like a festering sore.

He mulled over the messenger's words with a sense of resolve. Trying not to let his anger and disappointment show as he attempted to discern if there was any hidden meanings. Not that it mattered. He was halfway certain the elf Thranduil had sent was at least a couple hundred years older than him and had probably already deduced his mood from the slight tick in his right cheek or whatever it was that had given him away  _this_ time.

_Blasted elves!_

He jerked a hand, dismissive and curt. "Go then and tell your King his presence has been missed. Visit the kitchens if you are in want of anything before you set out."

"Vanya sulie, my lord Bard," the elf replied, inclining his head before turning smartly, long braids glinting with a modest tail of polished silver that caught the light as he moved. Following Fulthain who had been lingering on the other side of the door, down the stairs and out of sight.

He waited until the elf had gone, until the telltale clatter of hooves  _clip-clopping_ against the cobblestone reached him before he backhanded his glass of wine from the table with an uncharacteristic snarl.

But rather than watching it fall, he was up and moving before the stray red could settle amongst the shards. Letting the echoes chase him out the door as he shed his fine clothes and flung them to the side. Almost shaking with the force of an emotion he didn't understand as he thundered down the steps and headed for the wall.

Figuring he best put his anger into something useful as he threw his back into the task. Churning the mortar with a thick iron paddle until there was not a single part of him that wasn't sweat-drenched and streaked with mud. The fierce expression on his face forcing those who might have stopped him to give him a wide birth – while heartening those that worked alongside. Rubbing shoulders with their chosen King as he labored beside them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference:
> 
> Fulthain: Male name of Rohan descent, meaning: "servant."
> 
> Fasthelm: Male name of Rohan descent, meaning: "firm protector."
> 
> Sindarin: one of the most common Elvish languages.
> 
> Gleothain: Male name of Rohan descent, meaning: "music servant."
> 
> Gleobeam: Female name of Rohan descent, meaning: "harp."
> 
> Veryamorcon: a male elvish name meaning: "bold bear." – This is a reference to my Kiliel fic: "New Growth (adorns an old tree)" where I named the elf that was seen interacting with Fili in the forest during "Desolation of Smaug" – getting all pissy because he kept having to pull daggers off of Fili, seemingly out of nowhere.
> 
> Mae govannen: Elvish greeting, meaning: "Well met."
> 
> Abladon: Male name of Mirkwood/Wood elf descent, meaning: refusal/prohibition.
> 
> Vanya sulie: Elvish farewell, meaning: "fair winds."


	2. Chapter 2

He woke sometime during the night, clammy with sweat and the name of another leaving his lips. He strained to pick up the echoes, but they were lost to him, eluding him as he kicked himself from the covers. Squirming out of the sweaty tangle as his lip curled in disgust.

_Were even his dreams to be unknown to him now?!_

He wrenched himself upright, head in hands. Planting his bare feet on the chill stone of his private chambers, cursing with frustration. Trying and failing to ignore his hardness as it throbbed insistently against his thigh. His teeth worried the inside of his cheek, eyes straying into the half-dark as his member tented the soft material of his sleep pants.

_He usually wasn't one to indulge._

_For there had certainly been no others since his wife had passed._

_He hadn't wanted another._

_Not until-_

His mouth fell open as he teased the head through the thin black cotton.

Sucking in a guilty breath as he tried to shake the strangeness of it.

There was a heat burning underneath his skin.

Something wasn't right, wasn't-

_Gods, but he needed._

He groaned, eyes threatening to flutter closed when he gave himself a squeeze.  _How long had it been since he'd seen to himself like this? How long had the need remained unquenched? Gods, it was little wonder he was so frustrated, so-_

He leaned back, bare chest gleaming in a patch of moonlight that shone through a gap in the drapes. Shifting so that he was leaning back on his elbow as shaky fingers undid his laces and slipped inside.

It wasn't long before he was stroking himself in earnest. It was a familiar rhythm, one perfected to be quick and almost noiseless – mindful of all the doors that did not lock in their old home and the tendency for small feet to rush where they were least wanted at a moment's notice.

He jerked, twitching and over stimulated inside his own skin, too caught up in the rush towards the ending to marvel on how sensitive he was.  _How much he needed._  He cupped his sack, thumb slicking over his crown as a generous blurt of release pearled across it. Working himself with fast, beating strokes as his pleasure mounted. Rolling in like fast-coming thunder on a distant plain.

_Yes._

_Please._

_Oh gods-oh!_

He came with a silent exclamation, eyes squeezing tightly closed, smearing the warm trails of milky-white across his belly as he ground back against his mattress. Body curving like he was pushing back to meet the skin of a phantom lover, only to feel lesser when he realized he was still alone. He propped himself up, eyes half-lidded, yearning and still as the haze around his thoughts momentarily lifted, bringing him spiralling back down to earth as he realized two very important things.

_First, that he was still hard._

_And second, was that somehow, he knew that the comfort of his own hand wasn't going to be enough._

He kicked himself out of bed with a desperate sound, rolling off the mattress to stumble unevenly across the flagstones. Feeling off-balance and perhaps even a bit drunk as he threw open his drawers and rifled through them. Uncertain of exactly what he was looking for until calloused palms found his old leather vest - well-loved and still smelling of murky water and wilder things – and yanked it free.

He threw it over his bare shoulders, stomping into his boots before re-tying the laces of his pants and striding out into the main hall with a restless snarl. He was at the balustrades before he was aware of where he was going, ghosting over the uneven ground and sticking to the shadows as he skillfully avoided the night guard.

He climbed all the way to the highest point. Peering out over the city from the crumbling watchtower that had once housed the great horns of Dale, the same ones that had blared out their foul warnings as Smaug had flown in from the North. Raining fire and ash on the city of his forefathers before turning his sights on the mountain.

He bared his teeth to the darkening sky, feeling the tendons in his neck flex and bulge as his gaze strayed to the forest. He remained crouched on the edge, feeling trapped in his own skin as he breathed deep. The air around him alive with the cleanness of spring and the darkened edges of far more primal things.

They were things a civilized man had no business dwelling on, but he found himself contemplating regardless. Like what it would feel like to tear off his skin and roll in the churned up earth. To free the thing that lurked inside, hiding under marrow and sinew and embrace the truth of himself for the first time. To throw back his head and  _howl_ , baying out his loneliness and need until another answered back. Until-

He cocked his head, shuddering, feeling his prick firm against his thigh as the wind fell chill on overheated skin.

_He was not himself._

_He knew that much._

It was hard to tell through the haze.

But something had changed.

Or perhaps  _he_  had changed.

He felt like he was in the process of being remade.

A victim to the machinations of some otherworldly force that had altered him without his consent or-

He was running again. Embracing the need churning within as he allowed the animal its long wanted freedom. He wasn't sure how or even when, but he found himself out of the city and sprinting across the plains, heart beating with fierce excitement as the beast inside stretched out it's claws. Wanting to howl its pleasure as the forest loomed large in front of him.

He felt-  _no_ , he  _sensed_  everything.

He understood now.

Someone waited for him.

Calling to him from just beyond the trees.

His feet knew the way.

There was something unnatural in the way he moved. It wasn't just the sudden fluidity and grace, the speed that hastened his steps as he soared over rocky outcroppings and skidded across the water-slicked earth. It was more the lack of hesitation one inevitability grows into as the years pass. He moved like he once had, as a child, careless and free of fear. As a being that had not yet learned the painful consequences to their actions and thus had nothing to fear as he leapt over natural pitfalls he normally would have slowed to navigate around.

It wasn't that he was overconfident, host to the false bravado one inevitably displays after one too many drinks. It was more, the mere idea that he might make a misstep was impossible to consider. The concern simply was not there and thus the fear itself immaterial.

His body knew these lands.

Mind to soul.

Sinew to bone.

He existed here.

He would  _always_  exist here.

He ran through the long grass, a singular whip of motion and muted sound as his loose pants rippled. Outlining the bunch and release of his muscles as his gait turned long-legged and loose, running with the natural curve of the valley as he leapt from rock to rock. Eyes fixed on the gleam of the lake and the skeleton of the town, half-submerged in the waters beyond.

The flickering lights of Dale seemed small behind him, perched high amidst the rocky cliffs, tucked safe in the cradle of Erebor's mighty shadow. But the sight held no power over him. Not this night. Instead he waded into the shallows and clambered aboard his old barge, body remembering the balance and hold as he picked up his oar and set about pushing his way into deeper waters.

He poled the barge with a single-minded purpose that soon had him tasting the salt of his own sweat. Muffling the sounds of lapping water to a dull roar as the barge skimmed through the mist. Feeling more in tune with himself then he had in months as the worn wooden pole fit it the grooves of his hands like a second skin.

He hadn't been out on the lake much.

Not with the rebuilding efforts.

He'd missed it.

_Missed this._

And it seemed as though the feeling was shared, for the lake-borne breeze turned in his favor, feathering his cheeks with all the familiarity of a lover's kiss. Speeding the way to the distant shore and the one that called him forth as the forest of Mirkwood spanned the horizon for as far as the eye could see.


	3. Chapter 3

The fire was back when he stepped foot on the other side of the lake.

He scented the air.  _Yes!_

_That scent._

_That tell._

_That singular plead that colored the air with the strength of its call._

_It was still there, stronger in fact._

It pulled at him. Pleading and rough all at the same time. Demanding his presence but promising nothing. He was preferred.  _Chosen._  He inhaled, taking a deep breath as he tried to keep the scent of it deep in his lungs – breathing it – as if it were some long forgotten part of himself as he allowed the barge to drift. Too caught up in the hunt as he left a trail of arousal and approval.

This wasn't his territory but that of his mate's.

The ground was saturated with it.

So familiar that the name teetered on the tip of his tongue.

He spared a moment to wonder what Thranduil might think of all this. What would happened if he met the Elf-king on the road? His plans changed, heading to Dale as he'd been expected more than a week past.

_Would he think him mad?_

_Deranged?_

_The mad king, panting for something he could not name._

_Something he only knew, soul deep and down to the very marrow of him._

He tasted blood on his lips as he dismissed the thoughts as easily as they'd appeared. With images of the ancient king lost to the fervor of need clamoring though him. For what had once been a distant allure, a hardly tangible sensation that in the beginning could have been explained away as a night terror or some fast approaching fever, was now a living, breathing thing. Unavoidable and nigh as the beast within postured and growled.

He skirted around the edge of the forest until he reached the main path, covering ground quickly by way of an uneven lope that had him using his hands for balance. Pushing off from tree to tree, rock to rock as the night's chill turned to steam against the heat of his skin.

_The burn was stronger now._

_Stinging like a spark on the cusp of life._

_Threatening to consume him from the inside out._

_He needed._

_Oh yes._

_He needed so very badly._

He slipped past the borders of Mirkwood without thought or pause, boot soles sinking deep into the loamy soil as he forced the thick undergrowth to yield. He inhaled reflexively, sensing the dark taint, yes, but relishing in the rest. This was familiar ground, shared territory.  _It smelled like-_

There were two guards he could see, perhaps more that he could not. But he paid them little mind. Aware on a baser level that they were moving above him, flitting from tree to tree through the tangled canopy. But other than that, he spared them no interest. Traversing a rock-strewn ravine he remembered from his explorations as a child before bounding up the side, finding hidden handholds and steady placements with an ease he was certain he'd never displayed before.

It wasn't until he'd reached the top, rolling over the edge with a feat of spryness even Bain himself would have been hard pressed to manage - hitting his stride as the weight of his quiver and bow thudded like a second pulse against the small of his back – that the watchers in the trees decided they'd had enough of watching. Calling out a clipped  _aaye!_  before landing on the path in front of him - spears in hand – blocking his way.

"Quel lome," the one on the right greeted, sable haired and solemn as she inclined her head, flared breast plate accentuating her curved waist. Keen eyes roving across him as he danced back into the shadows, preferring the cover of the twisted branches as the second dropped neatly beside her. "What business does the King of Dale have in Mirkwood this night?"

_There were words._

_Words he could have said._

_Words he probably should have said._

_Words they certainly deserved considering the circumstances._

_Only he didn't._

_He lost them before they came to his tongue._

Instead, he reacted instinctively, addressing their attempt to dissuade him by baring his teeth. Trying to center himself as reaction and reason warred. Turning his limbs frenetic and jerky as a dark voice whispered – urging him to bite and claw, slashing with his blunt human nails until he had the taste of their blood on his tongue. Giving no answer save for the growl that rumbled from his throat like a warning.

It wasn't until later, after the memories started trickling back, melding with embarrassment and not a small measure of private awe, that he considered what he must have looked like in that moment.  _They must have thought him mad!_  Standing before them like some feral, half-wild thing, bare chested and soaked through with sweat, facing down two fully armed elves with nothing but his stance and curled fists.

He hissed, the predator in him preening as they took a step back in shock. Using the opportunity to leave the cover of the trees and advance, hair loose around him as feverish eyes glittered through his fringe – daring them to challenge him.

If he'd been in his right mind, he might have noticed the flash of understanding in the female's eyes. The way her posture changed, standing down from outwardly aggressive to merely watchful as she planted the butt of her spear firmly in the earth.

Only the second – the younger male with corn-silk braids nestled neatly behind each ear - did not mirror her. Instead, his hand fell on his hip, ghosting the clasps that held his sword before the female stopped him. Speaking over his silent protest in a flurry of elvish – unimportant and irritating - as the need rose up within him again.

He loomed over them both, teeth bared, until the younger quailed. He held the male's gaze for an ageless second, crowding close enough that he could feel when the icy slick of false superiority radiating from his skin turn to uncertainty, then finally fear before the elf dropped his gaze.

He chuffed in approval, extending a finger across the remaining space to linger on the point of the elf's chin, lifting it by the crook, if only slightly, while in his mind's eye he saw a wolf pup nipping apologetically at it's alpha's chin. Submissive and unthreatening as he inhaled, wondering if he was imagining the tartness of youth that flooded across his tongue as the blond elf inclined his head - coloring the air with tension and uncertainty as the older one shifted protectively beside him.

_No matter._

_They were not a threat._

_They knew their place._

He felt the corner of his lip twitch, vying with his silent snarl for a handful of beats as the guards bowed low, parting on either side, spear-butts firmly planted, so he could pass unheeded. The predator in him appeased as they maintained their submissive posture.

A mist of air curled in from the south, tangling with his sweaty curls as his pace quickened. Seeding the air with a freshness that might have made him question his course if not for the fire still burning in his breast. Following an unmarked path his soul seemed to know better than breathing.

He was aware of the strangeness of it. But it was a distant thing.  _Unimportant._

_His one was calling._

_His mate._

_The only one who could sooth the fire that burned within._

He wasn't sure if the guards had sent word ahead or if it was merely the lateness of the hour, but when he reached the mouth of the River Running - stalking through halls and pavilions rich with his one's scent - he was greeted by nothing but silence and the barest flicker of half formed shadows lurking in the soaring rocky depths.

_Closer._

_He needed to be closer._

_Almost-_

A vicious snarl, something  _felt_ more than heard, reverberated through bark and bone, just on his left. He whirled without thought, pivoting on his heel as the whisper of silk glided across the bare arch of his heel.

_When had he lost his boots?_

_He didn't know._

_Or care._

All that registered was the rasp of calloused toes across the flagstones. Feeling the sting as he scraped them bloody, awareness spiking at his near miss as his heart pounded in his chest. He caught sight of an empty throne, a vast ivory cavern wrought of bleached stone and living trees, before he planted his fist on the stone floor and skidded to a stop. He scented the air, reeling and drunk on it as the spectre teased him with the echoes of his ragged breaths.

_His one was here._

_Watching._

_Hunting._

_It was a game._

The realization was arousal coiling in his gut. Enough to make his cock – already erect and interested – harden against his thigh. The laces of his breeches pulling tight. Cupping him mercilessly as he rutted thoughtlessly against the flare of carved antler.  _The base of the throne, perhaps?_ Desperate to stave off the cloying haze that was starting to spread across his vision as the temptation to lose himself to it rose like a cresting ocean wave.

He hummed appreciatively as their scents mingled, aware of the figure prowling around the dais, just out of his reach as he breathed deep. Imprinting the scent of his mate alongside those he had unconsciously chosen as his children's – individual bursts of smell that singled them out as the most important people within his territory – the four most worthy of his love and protection.

_It was as it should be._

_As nature had intended._

His head lolled, heavy and graceless, as their two scents deepened, growing rich and layered with arousal as his mate rumbled receptively. Still keeping to the shadows, but curious now, expectant -  _practiced_.

The smile that spread across his lips was wicked, the only hint to the resulting action when he suddenly moved – slicing through the air like the downturn of a sword strike – catching the male by surprise as he changed the rules and let himself be hunted. Or at least let the other  _think_ as much as he searched out the place where the scent of his mate was the strongest.

_A den._

_A nest._

_Yes, this was it._

He only had enough time to seize the high ground, streaking to the other side of the room, partially protected by a massive birch bed woven amongst a living tree, piled high with pillows and soft sheets before his mate exploded through the door in his wake, showing himself fully for the first time.

Recognition sparked like a grass fire in a thatch of fallow wheat. Spiraling down into a singular grunt of surprise as the emotion graduated without his consent. Morphing into a satisfied sort of pleasure that made him wonder why he wasn't more surprised as he cocked his head - the points of his canines sharp against his bottom lip as the male's name left his tongue like the tail-end of a well-meant prayer.

" _You_ ," he hissed – forgetting himself - beyond thought or reproach as he let the syllables air out, lingering far longer than they should have in the still air as the Elven-King materialized from the sullen dark in a whirl of loose mahogany silks. "Mine."

" _Yes..."_  Thranduil purred, arching within his own skin like one of the great cats of the east. Like every rasp of skin was a pleasure in and of itself as an elegant hand reached out, broaching the space as a delicate finger crooked, beckoning him closer.  _"Yes."_

The starlight flickered, wreathing the room in moon-lit shadows as he kept his feet firmly planted. Ignoring the base-line pulse thrumming under his skin, urging him to go and find his pleasure. To tear apart and remake as the world continued turning around them, unimportant and timeless.

_It seemed important to resist._

_To prolong the moment._

_To speak words he didn't know he was capable of uttering anymore as his throat tightened._

_Body betraying him – inch by inch – as the siren call of red started to fog his vision once more._

"You're late," he murmured, throaty and deep, enjoying the way the Elf-king's pupils dilated at the sound, widening the slightest of bits as the male took a step closer, then another. Gifting him with a flash of memory as he recalled the smooth, effortless way the creature had moved that day in his tent. Pouring him a glass of wine as the scent of the wizard's pipe weed lingered heavy in the air.

It made him think of the den he'd spent so long creating. Unaware that his body had recognized the dance of courtship long before the pull – the tug on his body and soul that had sent him careening into madness. His teeth scored bloodlessly across the inside of his cheek as he remembered. A muted growl rumbled, issuing like more of a purr as Thranduil cocked his head, sensing the vibrations in the air as a hand – all graceful arcs and pale ivory – reached for him instinctively.

But again he forced himself not to take it, sensing the intention behind it as his mind bought up flashes of memory from the past few days. Like the attention he'd given to the smallest of details and the long days he'd spent waiting, spurned, only to have his mate draw him to a place of his own choosing.

_It was a show of superiority and strength that both enraged and aroused him._

_His mate was worthy - strong._

_And not to be underestimated._

"And you-" Thranduil began, tone biting like chilled starlight on a winter's night as loose blond hair flared out around his shoulders. "-are out of your depth, bargeman," the Elf-king hissed, feet deliciously bare underneath his robes, exquisite and so wholly unexpected that he could barely resist the desire to sweep him up and examine him - inch by torturous inch, until he had him bared and pinned underneath him. He wanted the fair creature merciless to his scrutiny as he uncovered every secret, every scar, every perfect part of him if only to proclaim to the world that out of everyone,  _he_  knew him best.

_That he understood._

_That he loved-_

"Overconfidence does not become you, dragon slayer," Thranduil snapped, voice cracking like lake ice in mid-winter, keeping himself well out of reach as he watched him lean back against a set of drawers, scenting anger and arousal like they were the same animal as the Elf-king twitched restlessly –  _wanting_.

But he just grinned, seeing all the way to the end. To a chase won and the air thick with the sound of impassioned moans and the scent of his lover heady above them. It was a self-made conclusion. A new beginning only hastened by nature, not created by it. Sooner or later they would have found themselves here. That much was certain.

"Am I?" he returned, dancing just out of the Elf-kings reach, feeling the glow of his precious stars upon him, sparking with the pure assurance of it as the usually austere male was forced to turn to keep track of him.

He ran his hands down the wooden curve of the bed frame, breathing deep as he scented his mate's frustration. Of long nights tossing within them until even the stars brought him no respite. He felt himself twitch, so hard the longing was akin to a physical ache that pained him every moment he was not slacking himself – wondering with a daring thrill if underneath his robes Thranduil was not in a similar state. There was something in the way the elf moved that made him suspect he was perhaps even more far gone. Even more wrecked, more-

His smile was a showing of teeth as it spread across his lips, pulling tight around wind-chapped skin as the Elf-king swept ever closer, only meters away and stalking him from the other side of the bed. A baser rumble escaped from red-bitten lips as Thranduil spread his long arms from pillar to pillar, as if to block his escape. Silver-blond falling wild in front of his face as they stared fixedly at each other – the moment theirs.

An age might have passed between that moment and the next. Finding himself lost to its complexities as his member throbbed, dampening the front of his pants with his excitement as Thranduil's chin tipped up – eager and predatory. As if the mere scent of his pleasure was a physical thing that forced the King to grip the pillars of his own bed all the tighter. As if sheer force of will was the only thing keeping him from broaching the space and claiming him as his own.

_He understood now._

_This was right._

_Desired._

_True._

_There was a confidence that bound this union._

_A sureness that thrummed through him, showing him that this was not mere circumstance or chance, but fated. A bond forged by the Valar themselves._

When Thranduil pounced he was ready. Using his speed and strength against him as he let himself be pinned, bowled over in mid-air and back onto the bed. But instead of struggling, he went right for the curve of the Elf-king's throat. Sinking in his teeth and making a grab for his pointed ear. Catching it between his thumb and forefinger before squeezing down,  _hard_.

The reaction was simultaneous. With Thranduil both freezing and melting in turn. Wilting on top of him and letting go of a pretty keen that thrilled through him in a way nothing in his life ever had.

If asked, he wouldn't have been able to explain what had prompted it. All he knew was that he was panting like the pleasure was his own, keeping a firm grip on the point of his mate's ear as he whispered, nuzzling into his neck and dragging his teeth.

"My name is Bard," he hissed, grinding his hips up against Thranduil's as the elf struggled to regain himself, eyes wide and blurred with pleasure. "Say it."

"Û!" Thranduil bit out – unrepentant and stubborn despite the fact that his eyes had fluttered closed, neck arching to highlighting the marks he'd sucked into the elf's skin as he squeezed down once more, nails skating across the shell as he forced his free hand between them. Tugging on Thranduil's silks as the curl of his palm stroked his erection through the fine material.

_Yes._

_This is what he'd needed._

_What he'd always need._

_What had been missing all this time._

_More._

_He needed more._

_He needed-_

"I will hear my name leave your lips before the night is done, one way or another," he spat, gritting his teeth and swallowing the moan that escaped as Thranduil firmed into his hand. Feeling the sudden pressure squeezing against his own hardness as Thranduil ground himself into his hand again and again.

Every roll of his hips was an indulgent and desperate thing, like a debt he was owed and some other worldly gift twinned together. He was just aware enough to force the Elf-king's head to bend. Taking his lips roughly, tongue curious and slick as he traced the seam of the elf's lips and slipped inside – groaning as pleasure sparked behind closed lids – feeling the material between them dampen with sweat and the herald of their release as Thranduil reared above him, sitting astride him as a damning flush spread across his fine features.

"Antolle ulua sulrim," Thranduil snapped, flirting with an aggressive snarl as the elf's fingers sunk deep into his dark hair, pulling and scratching at his scalp as the usual lyric hums of his native tongue turned baser and promising. "You talk too much, bowman."

High on the power of it, on the sheer impossibility of his clear advantage, he merely smirked, letting a smattering of beats pass before he retaliated. Pinching the point of the Elven-king's ear between his thumb and forefinger. Biting at his lower lip as he watched that high, imperious neck shudder through a swallow, so affected by the action that the elf's movements atop him turned rough. His usual graceful poise apparently lost to him as he dropped his hips and rubbed himself shamelessly into the curl of his palm.

"Lle lava?" he flared, seizing the unfamiliar words as they appeared in his mind's eye – raw and heavy as the rough of his voice caressed the syllables, twisting them into something that made the Elf-lord buck atop him.

The reaction was immediate. _Thranduil_   _writhed_. Making him groan as their groins came together with a delicious burst of friction. Giving the King little quarter as he pressed his advantage. Laughing and rolling him with him as Thranduil tried and failed to slither out of his grasp.

But no matter how he thrashed and growled, churning through the sheets and slamming him up against the headboard like a wild thing, his hand remained fast around his mate's ear. Keeping him leashed -  _close_ – caught in a rictus of pain and pleasure as he rasped a calloused pad up and down the sensitive point, savoring every sound that burst forth as the elf pressed himself into his hold, craving it just as much as he desired to break free.

"Lá! Leithio nin!" Thranduil roared, struggling against the hold in a way that made him certain had he not the advantage, he would be entirely under the Elf-king's mercy.

"Good," he purred, catching his mate by surprise as he hooked Thranduil's thigh and rolled him underneath. Predatory and darkly promising as he loomed above him, fighting the urge to bear down and take what was so clearly being offered in favor of appreciating the sight of his mate spread underneath him.

There was a vice in his chest, forcing him to pant as he considered all the time they'd wasted. The days since the battle that had turned from weeks to months. Struggling to catch his breath as the moment threatened to drown him under a fog of red as he started to thrust into the shallow of Thranduil's hips.

He tugged at a strand of soft hair as silver-blond splayed across the sheets, highlighted by a puddle of glowing starlight until he covered it with his own. Dark and light intermingling until he could scarcely tell where Thranduil started and he left off.

"I am going to enjoy you," he rasped. Dipping down to ruck up the Elf-king's silks, nosing into the crease where thigh met groin - where the scent of him was the strongest. Honest and alluring in its musky fragrance.

He inhaled, spine arcing with the pleasure of it as he licked a swath from the swell of his sack to the dip of his navel. Drunk off the wildness of it as the air above their heads grew thick with the scent of singed air and the char of soil moments after the lightning strike.

_Yes._

_His._

"I have you now," he murmured, letting his stubble grate across the sensitive skin of his mate's inner thigh. Pressing a trail of open mouthed kisses down unmarred skin and slicking him with the sweat that was pouring off him now, streaking his bare chest with acrid salt as Thranduil threw back his head. Sharp nails raking down his forearms as he eased his hold on the elf's ear, reasonably sure his attention was elsewhere as he distracted him by tonguing the crease of pale flesh underneath his sack.

He waited until Thranduil stirred. Lips parted in a muted groan of protest, hips rolling like a man possessed as the elf propped himself up on his elbows and met his stare. Blue eyes glittering feverishly, like hidden gems glinting in the half-dark. Struggling to keep his focus as every breath ghosted down the length of him, tip damp with his excitement, before he smirked – giving the Elf-king only a second to get used to the idea before he dipped down and swallowed him whole.

"….No veren, Hîr vuin."

It was the last thing he remembered saying for some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference:
> 
> •Aaye: "hail!" basically an elvish greeting.
> 
> • Quel lome: "good evening"
> 
> • Antolle ulua sulrim: An elvish insult meaning: "much wind pours from your mouth."
> 
> • Lle lava?: "do you yield?"
> 
> • Lá! Leithio nin!: "No! Release me!"
> 
> • No veren, Hîr vuin: "enjoy yourself, my lord."


	4. Chapter 4

He woke up in a tangle of well-used sheets and splayed limbs. Breathing in the lingering scent of their coupling as he shifted and stretched. Allowing it to meld with that of far richer things – the exotic scent of incense and the lingering sweetness of spilled oils, even the dry-salt of the soaring rocky canopy overhead – as he burrowed his face deeper into the pillows.

A soft hum issued from somewhere above him before elegant hands began gentling through his hair. Keeping him grounded and far too comfortable to move as the Elven-King settled into the natural curve of his back and scratched soothingly at his scalp. Patiently untangling his mussed curls as he melted underneath him. Allowing it without question as the smoothness of his lover's skin glided effortlessly –  _knowingly_  – along his own.

He regained himself slowly, in gentle increments that allowed him to take stock of himself and his surroundings. There was no confusion. Not shock or disbelief. No embarrassed cursing or unkingly flailing out of Thranduil's great bed either. No, for the better or worse of it –  _mostly the better, he hoped_  - he remembered everything.

The fact that he understood precisely nothing of it seemed slightly beside the point considering he had no desire to leave anytime soon.  _Gods, but he felt….good? Sated? Comfortable? Contented? The feeling was hard to describe after so many years spent alone._

His eyes twitched behind closed lids, stretching out slowly as he did a silent inventory. Remotely aware that while he was both arse naked and aching, he was also rather pleased with himself. Soaking in the pleasant thrum that lurked in the backdrop as his thoughts lingered on the red haze of intimacy.

 _Damn._  He sighed. Still, as much as he'd rather laze about all day, he had a city to run, children to check after and a kingdom to rebuild. He was supposed to meet with the old town council, as well as the stone masons. And there was that Dwarvish contingent from the Iron Hills that was interested in opening up trade negotiations.

_There was nothing else for it. He had to take his leave._

All that was left to do was get up and-

He shuddered through an inhale.

_Oh gods._

He felt like he'd gotten hit by his own barge.

_Repeatedly._

"Your mind is clear, King of Dale," Thranduil remarked, not without sarcasm as he groaned and wilted back into the sheets. Getting a pointed tug on one of his curls when he thumped his head mutinously against the pile of pillows he'd flopped on. Trying and failing to separate which muscles hurt and which didn't as his body whinged, throbbing like he'd been turned into one big bruise overnight as the elf procured a fine-toothed comb from somewhere behind them and set to work on another messy snarl. Nearly lulling him back to sleep as the even, rhythmic strokes grew soothing and slow.

"What was  _that_?" he murmured eventually, as if by way of answer. Wriggling this way, then that until his spine cracked, shifting and popping as Thranduil tensed disapprovingly above him. Hands immediately seeking out the sorest areas and digging in his thumbs – making him groan all over again as the elf applied just the right amount of pressure and  _oh-_

"The heat," Thranduil commented, airy and light like he was remarking on nothing of anymore consequence than enquiring after the weather or his evening meal - while still managing to answer exactly  _nothing_ at the same time.

"What time is it?" he asked, thumbing at a fleck of dried cum on his forearm. Figuring they'd start with the easy questions before working their way up to it.

"Past mid-morning," the elf remarked. "Though I believe that answer would not serve you well, considering that it isn't the right question," Thranduil added, not without a certain flare for the dramatic as uncalloused hands scratched curiously through his chest hair. Pausing to thumb down a line of freckles or circle around an old scar as the damnable creature waited for him to take the bait.

"And what would that be?" he returned, slightly amused now as the Elven-king pressed a mischievous smile into the curl of his hip. Lingering so indulgently that he had to supress a chuckle when his lover's long hair feathered across the backs of his thighs.

"You might ask how long," Thranduil offered, like it was truly of no consequence. Molding his body along the curve of his back with a sinful grace that felt both familiar and completely unattainable as the quiet strength of him radiated contentment and an almost a regal satisfaction.

"How long?" he parroted, confused for half a beat before understanding flooded in like the tide on moonrise. "Wait, how long?" he demanded.

"Four days."

"Four days?! Sweet Aule! My children! The meetings!" he babbled, so horrified that he forgot his hurts and seized across the blankets. Attempting to claw his way to the side of bed before a hand - heavy and firm - settled into the small of his back and held him there.

"They have been taken care of, dragon slayer. My people have already made all the necessary arrangements, and I can assure you they were as discreet as possible," Thranduil assured, leaning over so that he caught a glimpse of his lover's face, expression serious and perhaps even amused as he gaped up at him. Half mortified and half intrigued by what they could have possibility said to explain such a thing.

"Yes, but  _why_  though?" he finally blurted, making his back twinge in protest as he put his head on swivel and tried to catch his lover's imperious gaze. "I don't understand. Not that I didn't enjoy myself, but why am I here, Thranduil?"

The seconds that spanned out between one breath and the next tasted like fresh spring greens breaking ground. Like that moment of clarity he'd experienced atop that tower as Laketown burned. Seeing the chink in the fire-breather's armored scales. And in spite of everything that told him he was being all kinds of a fool for even daring to hope, his breath caught in his throat.

"Elves are more tied to nature and the moods of the stars than any other race on these shores," Thranduil finally offered, clearly choosing his words carefully. "Spring can be...an  _interesting_  time."

"Considering I nearly took one of your guard's heads off when they stopped me, I don't doubt that," he said with a snort, huffing into the curve of his elbow.  _Oh gods, if anyone had seen him leave, he'd probably looked half feral. Like a beast in rut, half mad with the want of it._

"So, this happens every spring?"

The silence was intriguing enough for him to chance moving his arm a few inches to the right and squint up at him. Fighting back a yawn as he blinked into the sunlight, eying the Elven-King over the rise of his forearm as the mid-day light fractured and danced across the curve of the room.

"No," Thranduil allowed, speaking so carefully he could all but _taste_  the elf's unwillingness to discuss the matter any further than he had to. "Not every spring."

But by then he'd had it to the hilt and was in no mood to play games. So, instead of waiting the elf out, he twisted in place. Rolling his lover underneath him as the day's light streamed down around them, highlighting their joining through an opening in the ceiling interspersed with woven thrushes.

"Oh, for Aule's sake! Enough riddles!" he growled, daringly forceful as he planted his hands on either side of the Elven-King's head and looked down at piercing blue. Seeing his own feelings reflected as Thranduil stilled, letting him do as he willed as he watched him, hawk-like and through slitted eyes as the elf's hardness slotted against his own with a burst of gentle friction.

"We have spent most of the last four days having each other in ways I can scarcely pronounce. For reasons I do not regret and hope to repeat, but am at a loss to explain. So forgive me, my Lord, but you  _owe_  me this much."

Thranduil merely blinked.

It took another few beats after that for the elf's expression to soften. Shifting, like a vast glacier contemplating rending at its center before he stretched underneath him, lounging prettily as he let go of the words like echoes on the breeze.

"Only when one's chosen hears their call."

_Ah, well, there it was then._

The muscles in his arms quivered – sore and aching - as he let himself rest atop his living perch. Covering Thranduil's skin with his own as he melted into every inch of him he could reach and closed his eyes. Letting his forearm thump back over his face as he let go of a sigh that was equal parts disbelieving and joyous – forcing himself to remain still and balanced as relief and frustration flooded through him in turns.

He was unable to help the wry grin the made tracks across his tired features as his thoughts spanned out. Steadfastly ignoring the way his lover's hardness was prodding interestedly at the crease between buttock and groin.  _Well, that settled it then._ He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting or why he wasn't more surprised, but  _hell_ if this wasn't one for the history books.

"You could have at least given me a warning you utter  _arse_ ," he muttered at the ceiling, sensing the moment in all its delicious clarity as Thranduil's eyes widened underneath him, burying his nose into the crook of his neck when the barest corner of the Elf-Lord's lips curved up into perhaps the first true smile he'd ever gifted him with.

They remained like that for some time.

Simply soaking up the feel of one another.

Each lost in their own thoughts as the future spanned out in front of them, tenuous, yet bright.

It wasn't until Thranduil slipped out from underneath him, cradling him close as he bore them into the byer of pillows strewn along the vast headboard, that his lover broke the silence.

"Are you not angry?" Thranduil began, choosing his words with the uttermost delicacy, so that it could be taken as a statement or a question depending on his answer. Hands wandering again as they lingered on the puckered-pale of a long healed scar, on the left of his back, some boyhood injury he didn't even remember he had until Thranduil's thumb traced its ragged edges. Soothing and almost reverent as the taste of more than one unasked question flavored the air above their heads in tangled web of grey and noncommittal hues.

He held back a sigh this time. But only just. Considering it rather bad form to expect a rational discussion when the Elven-King was letting his fingers wander.

"Angry? Why would I be?" he answered, turning onto his back so that he could meet his eyes as Thranduil loomed above. Collarbone still delightfully host to a necklace of bites and bruises he only half remembered putting there. Choosing to play daft as the Elven-king shifted beside him in clear discomfort.

"While the pull is unmistakable. The heat or the joining of souls as I have heard it named beyond my borders," Thranduil started, flicking a hand as if to encompass them all in one gesture, "was unknown to you."

"You were drawn here without your true consent. Caught in the grips of something foreign to you. And despite the truth of it, you were unaware of what had taken hold within you. Rational thought fled and with it, your ability to protest – if you so desired," Thranduil continued, closing slowly and deliberately, like every word was a death knell to this new love and he fully expected him to get up and storm off at any moment.

_The elf's concern would have been touching if it hadn't been so misplaced._

He expelled a breath of air up at the ceiling. Unsure of how to approach this as he tried and failed to find the words that would put his lover at ease. He was not good at this. That much he knew. At flowery phrases and skillful plays on words. He was a simple man. A barge man. And despite the crown they'd insisted on putting on his head, he always would be.

"While all that might be true- _ach_ , Thranduil. How can I? How can I be angry?" he started, scrubbing his face in his hands, grunting a bit as he jostled a sore spot on his hip. A hand shaped bruise crowned by the deep half-moons of finger nails that'd dug in during the throes of passion sometime before.

"I mean everything certainly makes a hell of a lot more sense now," he remarked, feeling a smile tug on the crusts of his split lower lip. "I think we have been dancing around this for a long time," he offered after a moment, attempting to put what he felt – here and now - to voice but finding the words themselves falling short. Choking on everything he couldn't yet bring himself to say as he forced the rest out in a hap-hazard rush.

"Just a warning next time would be great."

Thranduil paused above him, head cocked like he could not quite believe what he was hearing before he mastered the expression and met his eyes once more. "While I realize this might sound self-serving, I did consider it."

"What made you change your mind?" he asked, curious and alert as Thranduil arched backwards, fishing something he couldn't see out of a drawer as he sunk another half an inch into the Elven-King's sheets.  _Gods, he doubted he'd slept on anything more comfortable than this in his entire life._

He only had a second of peace before Thranduil shifted and something wet and thick was swiped across the arc of his heel, sending pain like dragon's fire coursing through him as a hurt that was previously ignored in favor of far more… _interesting_ things flared to life.

"Ah,  _ouch!_ " he flinched, jerking away from the questing fingers as he looked down and caught sight of a swath of angry looking skin half-hidden underneath and a roll of herb-packed bandages that he didn't remember having already been tended.

"Peace, King of Dale," Thranduil hushed, looking down at him with a small tub of pungent cream in his hand, tilting it so he could see its contents before turning back to his task. Carefully lifting up the wrappings he hadn't really registered until now, to smooth the salve across his ruined soles.

"What is that?" he asked, peering down at him. The bottoms of his feet tingling pleasantly where the smears were still wet.

"A healing cream. I am uncertain if you lost your boots along the way or left your halls without them, but the bottoms of your feet suffered for our dalliances and your journey here," Thranduil explained, not even batting an eye at the strangeness of their situation as he thumped his head back into the pillows and tried to remember the last time his world had made any semblance of sense.

It wasn't until the elf had turned his attentions to his other foot that he answered.

"Regrets haunt my people far longer than they do yours. We do not have the luxury of forgetting – whether through infirmity or death. We bear everything we are, everything we have experienced, through the ages. Unlearning what we are is not our way."

"You would regret this?" he inquired, cocking a brow.

"No," Thranduil thrummed, vehement and firm like he'd missed the playfulness behind the question. "If my affections were not returned, then I would not mourn the attempt, but the loss of what could have been."

"Then why did you-" he brought himself up short, suddenly struck by the truth of it.

Thranduil hadn't said anything because he'd been  _waiting_  till spring.

"You cannot deny it was a prudent course, logical even," Thranduil hummed, as self-satisfied as the cats that would hang around the docks when the gutters came out with their knives to scale and skin the day's catch. Able to pick through the carcasses for the tastiest morsels before they were dumped into the bait barrels and stored for the following morning.

He just groaned rolling over.

"You could have at least  _warned_ me."

His lover's laugh was like a tremor of birdsong caught within a tempest - crisp and complicated as he laughed at his expense. Delighting him with the rarity of it as he dared to shift for a better view.

"I didn't know if it was possible for a son of man to feel the heat. I have not heard of such a thing happening. Until I entered it, I was uncertain my feelings were returned - or true for that matter," Thranduil amended, mischief sparking in the back of his brilliant blue eyes as he captured the elf's hand in his and ran his nails down the delicate thinness of the Elven-King's wrist.

"Has this happened before?"

"Only once," Thranduil returned, weighted enough that he sobered, stroking the man's skin apologetically before resting a hand on his thigh. Understanding as his gaze turned inward and far away. Saying nothing but feeling the emotion with him. Twinned losses reflecting like they were distant shadows of the other.  _And perhaps they were._

"I will admit it took longer than I thought for you to come to me," Thranduil remarked, looking down at him through slitted eyes as his fingers continued their explorations down the elf's pale skin.

"By all the gods, I thought I was going mad!" he exclaimed, fixing the elf with a mock glare as he rubbed the curve of his chin – stubble and all – along the muscled-lean of the Elven-King's ribs. Enjoying the way it made him arc, lips parting almost indecently as his body both rebelled and lingered. "Truthfully, I am not yet convinced that this is all not some fever dream."

"But if it was would it not prove the point true?" Thranduil countered, voice silky with just enough roughness around the edges that is made his prick perk with interest. "That your thoughts might linger on us. On our union?"

He laughed, abandoning all pretense of propriety as he slung out his arm and reeled the Elf-King in. Feeling more clear headed than he had in over a week as Thranduil let himself be prodded and pulled, arranged close at his side as their legs tangled together.

"You are fishing for compliments now, my lord," he murmured, snuffling a chuckle into the elf's chest as a light, preening sniff was his only reply.

Close to two hours later still found them lounging, picking at a selection oat cakes and fruit that had materialized on a breakfast tray beside the door sometime between their conversation and the smattering of minutes where he'd managed to doze off. Still firmly tangled around his lover as Thranduil sang softly, radiant and impossible as the glossy sheen of his hair seemed to put even the sun to shame.

He was in the middle of stretching, brushing his bandaged toes against the bark of the tree that held them when a flash of memory endeared itself – lingering in his mind's eye until he suddenly found himself drowning in it.

His breath caught in his throat as he remembered the particular sensation of his lover's release trickling out of him. Trailing down the inside of his thighs in sticky trails of milky-clear even as he parted the Elven-King's cheeks and licked a stripe up his cleft. Greedy and growling as Thranduil pushed back into him - pleading and forceful in turn.

_An ngell nîn. Yes. Ona ta a'amin! Asca!_

He doubted he would ever forget the song that had burst forth when he nipped at his entrance, rimming him with sloppy circles of his tongue until the elf was nothing more than a quivering mess of tangled starlight and impossibly smooth skin.

_He remembered gritting his teeth when the sound had burst forth._

_The way Thranduil had come undone without being touched._

_Blue eyes blowing wide as he'd tipped back his head and mewled. Bearing his pale throat like nature itself was shuddering._

He emerged from the depths of his thoughts to find Thranduil staring boldly back. Unstoppering a decanter of sweet red with an elegant flick, as if daring him to speak his mind as he let the wine breathe.

"It would please me to know you again, with my  _own_  senses," he rasped, mouth dry, torn between watching the knowing smile stretch across red-bitten lips and crowing with pride for putting it there. Uncertain of where this new found boldness harkened, but grateful it was there all the same as his lover inclined his head, thighs spreading invitingly as the Thranduil leaned up and stole a lingering kiss.

"Perhaps if you ceased talking and did more doing, you would find that there is time enough,  _lirimaer_ ," Thranduil suggested, humming artfully against his lips as the unfamiliar word brought heat to his cheeks. Resolving to ask what it meant later before tugging at the elf's lower lip with his teeth – more than willing to doing as his lord commanded.

Still, he made sure to nip at Thranduil's ear for his impertinence. Grinning at the sounds that burbled forth as his lover sang sweetly for him. All thoughts of salvaging the day's work long forgotten as they relearned each other with clear heads and hearts that were perhaps twice as rich as they'd been the during the nights before.

_Spring was indeed a glorious time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference:
> 
> An ngell nîn: "please/for my pleasure."
> 
> Ona ta a'amin: "give it to me."
> 
> Asca: "hurry."
> 
> Lirimaer: "lovely one."


End file.
